


Rainy Mornings

by yoolee



Category: SLBP - Fandom, Samurai Love Ballad: PARTY
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Just a whole lotta fluff, Present Tense, third person, unnamed MC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-03-01 19:32:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13301724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoolee/pseuds/yoolee
Summary: Short, fluffy one-shot drabbles of the lords and their lady on rainy mornings.





	1. Saizo

_Ah._

He knows that sound.

He doesn't need to open his eyes, but he does anyway, listening to the rain as it patters onto the roof. She stirs next to him, and draws his gaze, which warms perceptibly without anyone to see. Still curled up beside him, her expression is almost unbearably peaceful. He has no wish to disturb her, disrupt that gentle calm, so he doesn't move at all. He listens.

Outside, Yukimura holds a hand out, eyeing the drops that land on it. He knows what it means, the rain, but they really need him today. "Sasuke, go find Saizo, will you?"

Sasuke doesn't even hesitate, "No way! I'd never be able to find him. Not on a rainy day." 

Yukimura sighs, and figures he may as well start with the ninja's room, though he hardly expects Saizo to actually be there. The sliding door slamming open wakes her up, startled into sitting, and Saizo glares in annoyance, drawling in his casual way as Yukimura stares in shock, "Go away, little lord."

Yukimura clearly isn't expecting her to be there either, and in confusion, stumbles blindly through an unintelligible apology. His attempt only makes her twin blush deepen, and stutters something of a scattered explanation in return. Saizo would find it funny if he didn't want to go back to sleep, so tiredly he snatches her abandoned pillow and lobs it at the intruder. Unerringly, it smacks Yukimura in the face. Sasuke, at least, gets the message, dragging Yukimura by the hand as he mutters, "Let's forget about Sensei today, okay Lord Yukimura?"

Silent, again, except for the rain. Until, looking put out, she moves to get to her feet and retrieve her erstwhile headrest. He stops her, touch gentle but unyielding. "Saizo," she insists, an expression of dismay and confusion on her features, "That was my pillow."

"You don't need it." He tugs her back down, features indifferent, rearranging them both until she is nestled in his arms, flushed cheek against his chest.  _Much better,_  he thinks. Her gentle breathing is closer now, close enough to hear over the rain, though its sound haunts him less these days. She's stammering something again, and he nuzzles her soft hair and ignores the protests with a "Ssh. Be a good girl, go back to sleep."

After a second, he feels her hands, hesitant at first but sure after only a moment, pull him closer, and then go still as she burrows against him and falls quiet. He captures one of them in his own, bringing it to his lips. There's a pulse in the wrist that quickens when he does, and he folds his fingers with hers and closes his eyes, feeling her watch him as he resists the urge to smile at her nervousness, but her breathing slows and he knows when her eyes close because the pulse quiets.

"Saizo," she murmurs sweetly, a sleepy, whispering sigh.

 _Ah_ , he thinks, not caring at the gentle ache it causes when it falls on his ears and heart, he knows that sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun (?) fact - this is the first thing I wrote after an almost ten year hiatus from fanfiction. The last thing I wrote was as like a fifth grader - I wrote a silly Spirited Away sequel thing and then a Harry Potter fic, before the fifth book was out in the US. So however long ago that was.


	2. Shigezane

When she turns the corner and bumps into him, it's automatic to steady her, take casual responsibility for her balance before he even knows who it is. In a second, his hands recognize the shape of the slim shoulders they rest on, and a grin forms before he realizes his hands are wet where they've caught her.  There's a moment of confusion, when he does notice that, and he's then forced to take swift inventory.

She's  _soaked_. 

He doesn't mean to laugh, but laughter comes naturally. There's something instinctively funny at the sight of her, dripping. Her surprised, and then utterly woebegone gaze meets his through damp strands of silken hair, clinging to her cheeks like a caress. It makes her eyes look even larger, and so like a puppy's that he wants to reach out and pat her head, so he does, smoothing the wet hair away so he can see her face clearly. He jokes without thinking, "That's… ah-ha…that's a good look for you." But the bubble of humor from his lips is wiped away immediately and entirely at the wounded expression that flashes on hers and the despairing droop of her wet shoulders, and he backpedals even before his brain can fully catch up, "No, no no - I, I'm sorry doll, I didn't mean to tease, look, its–" He withdraws, removing his overcoat and reaching again for her shivering shoulders, awash with apology and intending to drape them in his larger (and notably drier) clothing, but at that particular moment, she happens to look up, brushing the soaked strands he just had his fingers in away from her slender neck… he swallows.

Her movement displaces enough water to send it dripping down the graceful curve of her throat, sliding with inexorable slowness into the hollow above her collarbone before joining the damp of her clothes, heavy with rain against her trembling form. She shivers, and her small hand grips his overcoat, shrugging it more tightly around herself, until it covers the drenched fabric and all its saturation reveals from his sight. He's disappointed, for a moment, until he notices that he can't see her clothing at all anymore, under  _his_ , giving the impression… 

"Lord Shigezane?"

Another droplet, down her flushed cheek, but she wipes it away before it reaches her parted, trusting lips. 

A troubled smile and slightly strained laugh escapes as he makes the swift decision to get her away from anyone else's eyes, trying not to analyze too deeply why the sight of his cousin's cook, drenched through and wearing his coat, is so damnably appealing. "Oooh, just thinking we need to warm you up." He winces at his own word choice and is already ushering her down the hallways, "… let's move along, now, before you catch your death." Or he his, he thinks with a quick glance upwards, as much seeking aid as to avoid looking at  _her_ , in his clothes…"Let's go!"

It's a  _very_ good look on her, really. 


	3. Ieyasu

He can admit the beauty, though he hedges. He can say,  _she’s pretty enough_ ,  _in an average sort of way_. 

If you like that sort of thing.

(Mind you, he does.)

He can even acknowledge the skill, but others do it so often that he loathes to heap hispraise on as an addition, resenting the superfluous tongues that spill sweet tributes so freely. That much chatter in the air cheapens the words he wants to use, but he  _can_  do it, when he chooses.

What he can’t admit—to himself, to her, or to any of the watchful eyes that follow their individual trails in hopes of catching them cross—is the admiration. Likely because it’s  _his_ , and he has always been secretive about things that are his own, lest they be taken from him, and warped further as the rest has. But in the dreary, pattering gloom before sunrise, there’s nothing to say that it is  _admiration_. It could simply be taking longer to look because there is so little light. It could be caution. Curiosity.

(It isn’t, of course, and he knows that, but doesn’t let the thought form or linger).

He also knows that she won’t wake up when he brushes the pad of his thumb against the curve of her smile, tracing the shape that rests trustingly on her countenance, because he knows  _her,_ and he knows that those times when she ought to stir to alert wariness are invariably the moments when she slips deeper into dozing. She shifts, and settles against his side with a breathless sigh, barely there. The smile stays. 

He used to imagine it held secrets, tucked mockery and misery just inside her cheeks, behind fangs disguising themselves as even, white teeth.

(He knows better now. He’s checked. The only fangs are in his own smile, which he hides, though he trots out an angelic imitation for his keepers as it suits them to see it, and him to show).

There’s a flash in the gloom, and a bellowing crack on its tail. Her eyelids flicker beside him, and it never hurts to check again. “Hey. Wake up.”

She makes a sleepy, murmuring sound, not quite a word but a question nonetheless. He decides that’s awake  _enough_ , and presses his lips to hers, and is gratified when her eyes fly all the way open, bright and beautiful in the dark— _if you like that sort of thing—_ and her cheek warms under the hand he’s brought to rest against it. She parts her lips in surprise, and a swipe of his tongue confirms, again and again, no fangs, no malice, no poisoned misery hidden behind them. She won’t find the same true, he knows, if she meets his advance with her own, and as the press of his kiss chases sleep from the corners of her eyes, she does, her hands untangling from the cloth of his nightclothes to find skin instead. She’ll stay. She doesn’t fear misery or malice, the way he does. She practically seeks it, he supposes, sliding his palm from her cheek back, to grip, stroke, tangle through the dark strands of hair smoother than his own halo of curls. He’d wondered once if she did so the way others did, seeking the pain of their company in the way some sought pleasure.

Her hands gentle against him, pulling him back as he releases her, pressing against him in a way that is tender and unurgent, if not precisely chaste, and he is reminded that she does nothing the way others do.

She’s stubborn that way. Hunting on the heels of his anger like the thunder licking the edges of lightning, determined to catch and overcome, smoothing the sharpness of what he hides behind false smiles the same way she kneads dough, pushing and pulling, again and more, until it takes the shape her earnest hands demand of it.

She grins, suddenly, and lost in thoughts of her, he’s caught off-guard, and so finds himself scowling up at her from where he’s been pushed down. She’s unabashed, smiling sweetly into the face of his scowl, and wraps one arm around his shoulders, curling into their warmth as his hands find her hair once more, restlessly weaving the ends around his fingers. There’s a hum of pleasure at his touch, one that almost makes him smile, until he remembers he’s annoyed and so catches it just before it can form, but her eyes are already closed and wouldn’t see it even if she knew what it would mean for it to be seen. The storm howls outside.

Her other hand rests on his heart. 

By accident or intention, he doesn’t know, but it doesn’t really matter. He can feel the press of her fingers against the steady beat, and knows if she chose, in this moment, she could press them down and end him and the misery in his mouth once and for all. But she won’t, he supposes. It’s not in her to do so. Her nature is too determined to resort to cruelty.

(And despite himself, he admires that).

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truthfully, this one has been my favorite to write so far. Such a little brat!!


	4. Interlude - Yukimura

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yukkin gets three rainy mornings. Why? Because I am inconsistent and fickle. The 'real' one would be the next chapter, I suppose. But here are two rainy mornings that happen before then...

It was a lovely dream. One of the fuzzy ones, without clear and distinct shapes (those things not quite right but a little too real, that linger and haunt you with their clarity when you woke up), but instead the impressions of things, warm and familiar. She has the fondest recollection of blossoms, hazy in shape and smell, falling to the rhythm of heavy rain when— _“Up and at ‘em, Yahiko!”_

“Gu-ah!”

Whatever dream she had been having, it takes a far, flimsy distant place to the reality abruptly in front of her eyes – blue ones, above lips grinning breezily back, framed by a flash of pale hair and a smile that is, all things considered really, infinitely too bright to be assaulted with first thing in the morning. 

It takes her a second to notice Yukimura’s hands, wide and warm, are shaking her awake, and in their enthusiasm, sending her sleeping clothes sliding down—she grabs her collar in alarm, just as he,l oblivious to her distress, lets go and turns to face a rather put-upon pair of unhappy ninjas.

“Yukimura.” From her doorway, Saizo's tone is flat, mild, the sort that one might use when explaining a particularly complex problem to someone rather notably limited in their capacity to understand it, “It’s raining.” 

“No,” Yukimura corrects as she quickly fixes her clothes to satisfaction just in time to be hauled to her feet and tugged outside. She catches a flash of…of  _something_ between the pair of them, in the troubled twist of Yukimura’s lips and the softness in his narrowed eyes, the incline of Saizo’s head, like a sigh of exasperation except a full sigh would take too much effort and so he has settled for the faint movement instead, but it is gone as quickly as she notices, too soon to recognize and name. Yukimura blazes on, “It  _was_ raining.” He flings a triumphant hand out to the path, grin as ferocious as though it is truly the path to glory spread before their feet and not, in fact, a rather sad-looking smear of mud out to Lord Shingen’s lands. She would be inspired, really, if Sasuke and Saizo weren’t frowning quite so enthusiastically at it, and her legs did not remember, with aching clarity, the path he’d dragged them on yesterday. “It is  _not_ raining  _now_. The damp air’s good for the lungs, c’mon! Let’s go.”

“Lord Yukimura—” She begins, hesitantly, but he is already turning and shushing her, smile gone in favor of something almost vaguely paternal and disappointed. She finds something in her stomach squirms, like a child caught sneaking her share of vegetables to the family pet. 

“Listen, the best thing for soreness is more of what made you sore in the first place, Yahiko. These legs of yours are  _sticks_ , how can you expect—” His large, warm hand, the same one that just shook her awake, is rather suddenly and firmly wrapped around her thigh, squeezing slightly for emphasis and eliciting a piercing shriek of surprise, which in turn triggers a rattle of sound through the castle as maids poke their heads out and retainers come running to find the source. 

Saizo smiles, silently (though something about the air around him radiates irritation in a way that makes her laugh, high and nervous). 

Yukimura stares (the hand he withdrew with impunity at the odd sound has flown to his chin, and the contact reminds him immediately how not only  _not_ muscular Yahiko’s thigh was, but how…soft).  

Sasuke just mumbles. “Sheesh Yahiko, when you scream like that you  _really_ sound like a girl.”

* * *

 

Looking ahead.  
  
He’s been accused of being not being very good at it more than once, honestly, and while he was doing his best to study strategy, to surround himself with people like his brother and Saizo who could temper his impulsive desire to rush in, he has to admit that this, in particular, was not something he had seen coming.

Or considered coming.

Or even vaguely understood _how_ it had come about, now that it had.  
  
“Wo...woah,” Sasuke breathes, from somewhere above them, “Yahiko actually did it.”  
  
It's true, Yukimura realizes with surprise. Somehow, he’s ended up in his back in the mud, and Yahiko, whose dark eyes are wide with shock, has his hands on Yukimura’s wrists, pushing them down into the muck ( _although_ , a part of his brain–that part that came out on the battlefield, and stays on despite everything, keeping him alive– _the movement seems to lack conviction_ , and that worries him for Yahiko’s sake). The poison-tester's face is close to his own, breaths short and warm and for some reason, cheeks turning a deeper shade of scarlet even as Yukimura watches in fascination.  
  
Silence, except for the rain.  
  
Someone sighs. ( _Saizo, probably_ , Yukimura thinks without looking, and sure enough shortly after, he hears muttering about children playing in the mud and going back to bed.)  
  
Yahiko’s really…light as a bird on top of him. He frowns, pushing up on his elbows, cloth heavy with mud.  
  
“A–ah!” This seems to shock Yahiko out his daze, and he tries to backpedal, hands releasing to push against his chest and back, “Lord Yukimura I’m so sor–”  
  
Yukimura sweeps his leg, because his new recruit lacks the experience to know he should have locked it, and he’s more than a little concerned with how easy it is to reverse their positions, flipping them so it’s Yahiko’s back sinking into the mud instead, small hands trapped together in one of Yukimura's, and slender, sprawling legs locked by Yukimura’s own.

_Yahiko's so_ …Yukimura finds it rather difficult, at that moment, not to be fascinated by the stark smear the mud’s left across Yahiko’s cheekbones, high and delicate like…suddenly agitated for some reason (because he's worried, surely, about someone else getting Yahiko like this, but somehow, more worried than feels quite…right—)

“You can’t think your opponent is just gonna  _lay_ there!” He admonishes (ignoring the mutter from a small, brown-haired ninja of  _well you did, Lord Yukimura_ ) free hand forming a chopping blade that taps lightly in demonstration of consequences at the collarbone that’s been revealed as a result of their change in position, with Yahiko’s hands raised, and the body below his jumps in surprise at the contact, surprising him in turn, and his hand flattens for balance, leaving a perfect impression that spans rainslick skin and fabric alike, of where it lay on Yahiko. 

A man shouldn't have such delicate collarbones…should he?

A small, unsure sound comes from beneath him, high-pitched for a man, and he remembers he’s supposed to be teaching, because if this were a real battle, and Yahiko’d hesitated…he yanks his gaze up, and it doesn’t matter, nope not at all, the startled sort of way Yahiko's chest is rising and falling beneath his. “Knocking them down isn’t enough!  Look how easily I got you on your back!”  
  
Yahiko turns scarlet beneath him, and the pulse trapped in his hand through the captive wrists thunders with heat in a way that makes his stomach suddenly feel strange. It’s impossible, absolutely impossible not to notice how warm Yahiko is, compared to the cool mud, the cold, falling rain, how soft the slim wrists are, caught in the rough callouses of his own. He feels sort of…distracted, somehow, but shakes his head. The action sends drops of water flying and he's reminded why they’re here–it’s important to be prepared to fight in any weather.  "You,” He tries to sound stern, not breathless, "Are not getting up until you can get me off."  
  
He wouldn’t have thought it possible for the skin in his hands to get any warmer, but it does, and there’s a mortified protest of "Lord Yukimura…"  
  
Sasuke snickers and the retainers pick up the cheer,  _“You can do it, Yahiko!” “Yeah! Go on!” “You’ve got this!” “Yahiko!”_  
  
Yukimura’s expression is pointed. This is for Yahiko’s own good. Right? That  mud on his cheek, obscuring the blush, is distracting him again. Looking resigned, at last, Yahiko’s lips twist oddly, and without thinking Yukimura’s eyes trace their movement. Yahiko starts squirming beneath Yukimura’s body, trying to wriggle free, and his chest is pressed further against Yukimura’s, arms sliding through the mud and thighs brushing against…Yukimura starts, leaning forward in surprise, and Yahiko gets a hand free, to land on Yukimura’s shoulder, pushing ineffectually, and somehow, in the struggle his clothes have loosened further, revealing the only clean skin left on the both of them—everywhere else is slick and filthy from the soaked, smeared mess the rain has made of the earth.

The rain droplets smear the muddy handprint he left earlier further, down the arc of Yahiko’s neck, dropping to the smoothness of an arched collarbone, gathering, then flowing over, swirling lower through the mud in a twirling path down past…ah!  
  
“Wh..wha…?”  
  
 _Thunk._  
  
Yahiko shoves him off, and scrabbles to his feet, the collar yanked hastily back into place as cheering men swarm him. Yukimura sits in a daze. The rain is unbearably cold, against his skin which seems too hot and too small. Surely he…mis-saw that, somehow. He tries to ignore what he  _felt_ , too, brain refusing to register it, focusing on his eyes, and unbidden they seek Yahiko out. Hair slick against graceful neck, mud dropping listlessly off his slim shoulders…Yukimura’s eyes drop lower, the handprint is obscured now but—  
  
He snaps his eyes to Yahiko’s face, gets to his own feet despite the good-natured jeers, awkwardly tugging on his neck and ignoring that he finds mud there, too. One of his sandals is completely done for, stuck in the squelching muck and looking rather sullen, next to the impression of two bodies. It looks like one, the top half, only splitting where the legs...His eyes dart over to Yahiko, nervous in the middle of the loud group but smiling uneasily. Once more his gaze travels down… _nope_. A third and last time he pulls his gaze up. He is not looking down, no. And not looking sideways, not looking at Yahiko and that small patch of smooth, clean skin, the warmth of trapped skin, the heat of a pulse–nope. He’s just…  
  
“Lord Yukimura watch out for that—”  
  
Thunk.  
  
“….post.” 

Not, apparently, looking ahead.

* * *

 


	5. Yukimura

It’s raining, he realizes, waking with a start.  _No_ , thunder rattles and two panicked hands tangle themselves in his robe with a soft, "Eep!", it’s  _storming_.  
  
He sits up, and pulls her carefully into his arms, only then realizing as he watches the long, graceful eyelashes fly upwards, that she’d reached for him in her sleep, and somehow, that she would do so makes him feel like…like he’s home, he supposes. Warm. Strong, in a way he’s not used to thinking about off the battlefield. He pulls her in so she’s settled inside his legs, cradled and cherished and he presses his forehead to her shoulder, arms crossed tight around her slim waist. Still slight as a bird. So much stronger than he’d imagined once. Idly, thoughtfully, his arms tighten, and his lips brush her shoulder. Not too small. Not too anything. Just right. Just perfect.

"Yukimura?" She asks, his name soft on her lips because she makes it so, makes him so. Lightning illuminates her face for a moment, gentle with concern and then startled by the crash of thunder that follows, and she flings herself forward in surprise. Ordinarily, such a thing wouldn't budge him an inch, but he lets her have his balance, toppling them both back into his bedding and laughing when she tries to pull back, stammering an apology. He catches her hands, tugging her back on top, arms pulled taut against her warmth. It’s not just her hands he feels her pulse in then, it’s everywhere, every inch. It’s hard to look at her, feeling that warmth, that softness, and knowing…while his brain is busy being distracted with his own embarrassment, his body moves anyway, pushing a kiss as soft as her words to her cheek. She blushes and ducks her head, and stammers unexpectedly, "Are we…do we have to go get up?"

He can tell she is thinking of mountain paths and sparring, his usual haunts for his men on days when the weather permits them to train in uncomfortable conditions...but he isn't. "Ah," He temporizes, but knows he’s already decided, despite himself.  
  
Almost petulantly, he rolls, bringing her with him so they’re on their sides, though she’s still tangled up with his legs—terrible form, from a wrestling standpoint, as neither of them would be able to stand up, but rather satisfying in another sense; keeping her trapped in his bed though he tries not to think how dishonorable that is—and sort of embarrassed, he tucks his head against that perfect shoulder, arms urging her waist closer as he wills the rain to stay, and delay the morning as long as possible. With the blush she always brings to him, he mumbles almost silently into the softness of her skin, "…Not today." 


	6. Mitsunari

For the first time, it occurs to Ishida Mitsunari that books keep secrets.

Objectively, it makes sense. Even if one is recording strategy, facts, it makes  _sense_ in war to keep some for yourself, to hold back and enact for someone else to record at a later date. That seems only logical, no matter how devoted the scholar, who, even if they lack the personal concept of self-preservation when put up against the wealth of shared knowledge, has lord and liege granting them the time to record such things and so earn their protective silence.

The crack of thunder does nothing to interrupt his thoughts, except to remind him that it is raining.

The darkness of it dilutes whatever watery sunlight may have otherwise filtered in, making it difficult to tell the hour, only that it is early, and she is still asleep, burrowed in his bedding like a child. He is thinking about books.

And her, though it galls him to do so.

He frowns at her continued presence, more out of thought than true displeasure, and then lets his gaze fall to the faded collection of tales she had fallen asleep with in her lap, now placed carefully to the side by his hand. The little dullard hadn’t even the decency to wake up before him, and creep back to her own room. No, instead, she'd crept to  _him_ , and carried over what he'd left with her besides, curling up against his back with what she’d brought of the bedding over them both.

He frowns at her again. Doesn't she know there will be others waking up soon? Not everyone is afforded the luxury of dreaming while storms rattled over the castle. What would they think of her, and where she was found?

His frowns etches lines in his brow. "Hey." Nothing. "Manju-girl, wake up."

She shifts, and makes a soft, sighing sound so like the shushing of rain that his eyes dart abruptly away and back, glowering at the walls that catch the patter, and then, safely, to his books.

Secrets, he remembers.

He prefers tomes that focus on mechanics, reactions, reasoning, results. Knowing what a man thought and felt was useful as well, but Mitsunari is not immune to his shortcomings, and leaves the strategy of such things to Hideyoshi, who needs no books to tell him how.

It occurrs to him to wonder if perhaps they keep secrets, not merely as leverage in the next bout, but because of pride. Absurdity.

After all, who wouldn’t scoff, if it were recorded, at a description of what it felt like? The softness of a touch to your skin waking you from sleep, graceful fingers brushing your cheek, and what remained in the wake of their loss, when they returned to a curled state, at rest in reach but impossibly far.

She shifts again, and her fingers curl in the fabric stretched over his arm, his name tumbling in a sleepy murmur from her lips.

Startled, he yanks his arm free, and scrambles free of the bedding. For a moment, her eyes open, slow and laborious in their dulled confusion, but soon they fall shut once more as an unsettled pout pulls her lips downwards. "Mitsun..." But then she takes a long, slow breath, and after, her breathing returns to the quiet, easy pace that seems unbearably peaceful in the moment.

He scowls at her. Ferociously. "Hey."

She sleeps.

His arms cross. The scowl deepens. He could shake her, but doesn't.

Nothing.

Nothing but soft breathing and rumbling rain.

Angry with himself, he takes a jerky step back towards her form, making quick, neat work of the blankets, tucking them tidily around her shape before stomping back to his desk.

Scholars have a duty, an obligation, of sorts, to record. So of course they had, somewhere. He just has to find it.

_Somewhere_ , in the piles of their legacy, there will be some answers, some way to silence the unsteady crackle under his skin, unignorable as thunder, as soothing as rain.


	7. Interlude - Kanetsugu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'cause Kanetsugu's Best Girl is always going to be Ai :)

It’s still early enough to be called  _late_  when the storm wakes him up. He is intrinsically inclined to schedules and the order of them, so he knows, even before his eyes open, that dawn won’t greet him for some time yet.

For a few moments, he listens to the rain.

If he served a different lord, me might have philosophically supposed that the world seemed quieter when it rained, smaller somehow.  Since he serves  _Kenshin_ he mostly just reflects with relief that his wayward liege is unlikely to wander too far in the presence of a squall, though he will no doubt take the storm as excuse to swan about the castle like some ostentatiously wilting widow. 

Or widower, perhaps. Kanetsugu glances to his side.

Ai, who abandoned her own sleeping quarters for his at the first crack of thunder, curls in closer. Her breathing is quiet and even. Safe at his side. He supposes he softens with her presence, but it doesn’t bother him to do so. The smile that takes residence on his features has always been hers, so he takes no care when and if it comes,  so long as she is well and safe and there to incite it. She flinches at a thundercrack but doesn’t wake, and to soothe her he runs his hand through hair he will have to pull back for her with ribbons when she wakes. (He has long suspected that she acquired to skill to style it herself some time ago, but he is happy she still asks, and dreads the day when she will stop). As he always does, in these peaceful moments where she slumbers with a smile, he murmurs a prayer for her peace; that her smile will outlast them all, serene and secure and indomitable.

He lets himself linger, lets his silent wishes hang in the quiet of a rainy pre-dawn, before practicality and his obdurate adherence to such a philosophy convince him that to do so any longer would be slothful. He moves carefully, so as not to disturb, and tucks his daughter in with a soft touch to her brow, willing the thunder to remain away so she needn’t wake just yet. She smiles in her sleep, and he smiles in return.


	8. Kanetsugu

A rainy season makes for many rainy mornings.

Once more, when it wakes him, Kanetsugu takes stock of its presence, despairs of the inevitable prospect of wrangling a lord lost to the throes of contemplating the rain’s existence, and considers his schedule.

It’s too early for anyone else to be up, but he has no reason to stay, and so decides to get ahead of his work, while the rain keeps others abed and out of his hair.

When he hears giggling, over the soft shushing of rainfall, he frowns, not because it bothers him, but because it’s out of place, echoed by a laugh not quite as young but no less delighted. He thinks of the hour, and paperwork, and sighs (the first of the day) when he finds precisely what he was expecting in the kitchens.

It surprises him, the picture they make. Heads together, whispers hushed and soft as the rain, at once familiar and all together strange. Ai’s smile finds his face, but troubled, muted by through the tired, puzzled fog of another presence, with her sleeves pulled back and her hands shaping dough with his daughter at her side, mirrored smiles backed by the flickering hearthfire.

Lord Kenshin’s favorite.

Though what—a crease mars the smile, not unfond but dismayed all the same— _isn’t_ his favorite.

Though calling her a  _what_ is a bit unfair, he admits even to himself. His tone is perhaps chastening, but resigned, lacking the bark he would apply to a different audience. “What are we doing?”

He expects guilty squeaks and the hiding of whatever it is – isn’t that the nature of early morning whisperings?

He does not expect the kitchen, manned only by one small girl and one disguised woman to shatter into chaos.

The bowl of plums in Ai’s startled hands goes airborne. The chef slips on her flour, an elbow overturning a bowl of hydrangeas, her backstep banging into a rack of pans that clatter in a ripple as the bowl hits the table and the plums tumble into the fire as his daughter shrieks in dismay at their loss. Her small hand reaches for them and Kanetsugu lunges as the chef does too and with a cry the chef pulls her back even as she realizes, and recoils her fingers in understanding.

The bowl rattles at last to stillness.

He supposes, in that moment, that all there is left to hear is the quiet rain and his own heart. The trio stares in shocked, wide-eyed silence at one another.

Kanetsugu notices the chef’s sleeves have come undone, and what’s more—his eyes widen as he hears footfalls, and with little of his usual elegance, lifts Ai with one hand and the chef with the other, urging them both to a dark corner where miraculously shelves are still upright, with a hiss of “ _Hide!_ ”

“But–?”

“Ssh!”

Kageie bursts in first, eyes wild and sword drawn. Presumably, he is first, because he did not bother with  _dressing_  first, and Kanetsugu resists the urge to sigh, hoping the chef has the good sense to shield his daughter’s eyes.

Kagetsugu is not far behind, eyes wary and alert though sleep lingers in the pouting frown of his features.

_Next will be…_  his little brother, like clockwork, tumbles in, practically throwing himself over Kagetsugu’s shoulder, “Wha-what was that? What’s goin’ on? Everyone alright?”

_And last but_ not  _least…_ “Kagetsugu!” The dulcet delighted tones work like the parting of waves, and Kenshin, unhurried and ever unharried, beams at the disaster that has become of his castle’s kitchen.

And then he blinks.

Pleasure flickers into…confusion, wide-eyed and puzzled. “Kanetsugu?” This time, it’s a question. Volumes in a single word. He follows Kenshin for a reason, despite the endless exasperation.

Kanetsugu allows himself the sigh after all – that’s two, before breakfast. “I was making breakfast.”

“With  _every_ pot in the kitchen?” Kageie’s tone makes it difficult to tell if he’s impressed, appalled, or merely making an observation. “And flowers _?”_

Kanetsugu demurs, “There was a mishap.”

“Apparently.” It’s not meant to be heard, but Kanetsugu frowns nonetheless at the young Kagetsugu –  _as if he has room to talk about kitchen disasters_. There is a shift, a slight movement of pink in a corner that Kenshin’s most trusted retainer hopes will be put down to a flicker of firelight, and not explored further.

“Brother…why  _were_ you cooking with flowers?”

Kenshin claps his hands, and though he pulls his face into an artful pout, the one who knows him best can see the mirth, gleeful and light, in the edges of his lips and the bells of his silent laugh. “Dear me…I don’t think I like care for this redecoration, Kanetsugu.” There are times, Kanetsugu  _almost_ smiles, where he and Kenshin are in utter accord. He does appreciate that, but it doesn’t help with the rest of them.

“No, no, of course not – get out so I clean it.” Kanetsugu figures that unless she has frozen, by now she has had time to set her clothing to rights, but that would no doubt lead to other questions.

Wise to the ways of hiding, its his liege who ushers the other retainers out, without seeming to do so at all. All smiles and floating hands, he pauses in the door to beam back, “Perhaps leave the breakfast to Yahiko?”

“I will be sure to do so.” He wants to press his luck, open his mouth to suggest that while Kenshin is  _up_ he do some work…but he already has, in such a way.

Kanetsugu turns, and frowns at the shelves and the shapes tucked behind them.

His daughter’s shoulders are shaking, and he finds his frown is meant for Kenshin, whose bad habits of humor she has clearly picked up. The chef looks sheepish, but she too is biting her lip.

Ai grips her stomach, toppling over as her peals of laughter mix with the rain and murmurs of woken voices. The woman beside her stands, looking sheepish and appealing disheveled as her lips twist in an apologetic expression pressing a laugh inward. He waits—he’s good at waiting—expecting an explanation for all this. 

Instead of giving him one (one he feels he is justly due) she gently reaches to his hair, and pulls out a stray plum.

Kanetsugu stares at it, genuinely surprised at its presence.

“I—” She starts. “I’m so…I’m  _so sorr_ —” It’s a valiant effort. It is, but soon she too is lost in the helpless gale of mirthful giggling that has overcome his daughter.

He doesn’t sigh. He ought to – there’s not an ear alive that would hear and mistake her for a man. 

Instead, he smiles, and lifts his eyes to the ceiling as the storm pass through.


	9. Toshiie (Inuchiyo)

She’s almost always awake before him.

Objectively, it makes sense. Her role in the castle requires early mornings, so that as the other residents stumble into wakefulness, breakfast is ready for them, and his involves training—or, sometimes, carousing—late into the night. But this morning, just this once, the rain wakes him before she stirs from sleep and he finds that if he has to lose something he’d prefer it be his own slumber than the sight of her smile, brought on by dreams that have come while she lies on his bedding and in his arms.  

That’s something, isn’t it?

That she’s here. That she’s smiling. That she’s with  _him_. Not just because of momentary circumstance, or misunderstanding, or benign manipulation and brotherly affection, but because she knocked on his door, and reached out her arms to step into his, and asked to stay.

Considering how ready he is at any given moment to let his heart beg, she doesn’t need to ask, but it’s  _something_ , that she has.  

She’s tucked against him, back against his chest and soft hair spilling over the pillow and his arms, wrapped around her and unwilling to loosen. If he closes his eyes, he can still identify every inch of him where she is too. In the dark before morning, his hands can recite her shape in endless litany, though they lay still now, drinking the soft warmth through the fabric of her sleeping robes. Solid and sweet. Next to him, with him. She’s already close, her ankles looped around his calves, one hand resting on the arms he has crossed around her waist, the other tucked by her chin, but it never feels close enough. If it were anyone else, he might be embarrassed by how much of her he needs, but she’s wonderful, just wonderful, and he doesn’t care at all, and pulls her as gently as he can, as close as is possible.

She stirs, and he brushes the strands away from her face, letting his fingers soak in their softness, wrap around them, and he presses a kiss to the tips before murmuring nothing into the shape of her, hoping to soothe her back to sleep.

Still, as the rain shushes the morning so that it creeps instead of glows, she wakes, and meets his gaze with a smile that stops his heart. “G'morning, Inuchiyo.”

He presses a kiss to her temple, loving her absolutely. “Good morning.”

She wriggles, and he loosens his hold just enough to let her scoot up so she’s facing him evenly, eyes bright and cheeks flushed from the warmth shared between them. Her hair’s a mess—partly his fault—but he loves it that way. He keeps his arms where they are rather than smooth it, because it suits him to see her so. She wiggles again. “Inuchiyo, you’re hot.”

“Well, I work out.”

She laughs, inelegant snort muffled by the fabric across his shoulder. “That’s not what I meant!” He shrugs, wide grin undeterred and adoring. She splays her arms across him, supporting herself as she tries to sit up. Because he can deny her nothing, even in jest, he doesn’t tighten his arms, but nor does he let go, not just yet, not as long as she’s here. Stay. He wants her to stay.

She bites her lip with a shake of her head.  “Inuchiyo,” His name is a triumph from her lips, a melody that’s haunted his head for what feels like forever. Gentle, teasing. “I have to go make breakfast.”

“Let ‘em starve.” 

“ _Inuchiyo!”_

“They’ll be  _fine_.” His arm, wrapped around her middle already, pulls her back  where he’s elated she’s chosen to belong, and he shakes his head in echo of hers, smiling into her hair as she giggles and squirms in protest. She stops struggling after a moment, laughing breathlessly and freely into his grip.

 For a little longer, just a little longer, he hopes she stays.


	10. Kansuke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit different, this one! Less in his head, more in hers. What is discipline? What are rules? I write where the wind takes me aaahahaa.... anyway, Tsuki!MC (Shadow ninja heroine, not radiance chef) here.

He is quiet as death beside her.

Her fingers splay over his chest, needing the reassurance of its rise and fall to believe that his eyes will open.

When she was younger, she didn’t think death was quiet. Death wailed at the door, wept loudly and screamed, and caught raw in your throat in startling moments when you thought it had long passed. It whispered what-ifs when memories came, sibilant and aching. She realizes now that what is loud and haunting and lingering is grief, and not death at all.

Death is quiet.

It’s the silence of absence, of a light flickered out until the smoke stops, a cool space when you were reaching for warmth instead.

His chest rises under her palm, and falls, and she sighs in the quiet of the morning rain. She watches, knowing she should lay back down, rest while they can, but thoughts of absence keep her still, and she watches. Her fingers seem small, stained as they are by herbs and scars. Or perhaps it’s merely that he seems large, and she wonders how anyone can think him wind and smoke and whispers when he’s so warm and solid and dutifully  _present._

She strains her ears for breath and heartbeats, but the patter of rain in the leaves hides them from her, until she leans close, and reminds herself at least of the rise and fall of his breathing beneath her touch.

She jumps when his hand closes over hers, holding it against his heart. He sits up at her movement, other hand reaching for her shoulder, slow and smooth as though moving throw his own heavy hesitance first. He’s watching her, and her fingers curl beneath his, into the fabric she finds. Very little betrays his thoughts, but the pulse skips under her touch, and the placid evenness is nonetheless concern, “Are you well?”

Warmth blooms on her face, and in the palm he holds likesacred glass. He seems to notice, and his hand falls from her shoulder until she seizes it, and folds their fingers together without reverence. With heat and mess and sound. Foolish, how foolish they are to think him shadow and whispers only. She laughs, and flings herself into his lap, into the solid warmth and silence of him, and he catches her with only the brief touch of surprise to his brows, the faintest rock of his balance before he is steady, and her own arms are crossed around her in their refusal to release his. He peers at her, a quiet stare that is longing and love and service tucked behind unperturbed tranquility. She meets his stare with a smile that is perhaps more on the love and less on the service, but her own and his, and rubs her nose against his with delighted glee at his wakefulness. “I am.” There is a chuff of sound, an exhale that she knows for the laughter that it is. His arms tighten, almost imperceptibly, and she leans into them, and wills lightness to their burden, that she knows he carries even with her in their circle.

She knows the answer from the set of his shoulders, the curve of their shape, the warmth of his fingers and the rise and fall of the chest she wriggles comfortably against. He allows her to burrow without comment, and the softness the touches the solemnity, darts around its corners like strains of music in the wind, tells her too. “Are you?”

He releases her fingers to re-arrange her arms more properly in front of her, which she know is to avoid the strain, but she throws off the placement by wrapping them around him instead. He sighs into her hair, almost imperceptible, at her willful disobedience, but she hears the smile though it wouldn’t show to anyone who didn’t know how to look. “Hmm?” She prompts, and grins for the both of them.

He is quiet, quiet against her. But she hears him as he whispers softly against her skin, loud as life. “I am.”


End file.
